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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26116831">Always On Time</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likerealpeopledo/pseuds/Likerealpeopledo'>Likerealpeopledo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ficlets, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:40:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,836</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26116831</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likerealpeopledo/pseuds/Likerealpeopledo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>David and Patrick Prompts All In One Place! </p><p>Prompt One: David watches home movies of small Patrick with the Brewers </p><p>Prompt Two: Kissing in a stairwell (from Tumblr)</p><p>Prompt Three: Deleted scene from The More You Know trivia AU (Patrick POV)</p><p>Prompt Four: "Patrick has feelings about David's sweaters."</p><p>Prompt Five: Kissing under an umbrella/staring at lips as if drawn by unseen force (from tumblr)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Brewer/David Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>89</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>176</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Here I Am</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Prompt: David watches home movies of small Patrick with the Brewers</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“We’ve converted all our VHS tapes to DVD, so we have what, four hundred hours of Patrick’s childhood at our fingertips?” Clint asks as he and Marcy settle into the sofa on the opposite side of the room.</p><p>Everyone is stuffed to the brim with Marcy’s recent dinner smorgasbord of red meat and potatoes and pies, so many pies, but it’s clear that there will now be <em>entertainment.</em></p><p>David's husband, the main attraction, tenses demonstrably at his side. David knows that Patrick hates being the center of attention as much as David thrives in it, even with the people he loves and holds close. Little by little Patrick is loosening in this regard, but maybe the sheer amount of available viewing hours is what has him clenching in David’s arms. He does prefer an after dinner walk over more sedentary endeavors after all.</p><p>Through a tight jaw, Patrick finally speaks. “Hey, that sounds like a lot of fun you guys but don’t we think we should prepare ourselves for our real movie night? Some Sandra? Some Julia? Field of Dreams, Dad?" That last one is plaintive and a bit desperate. "Do we really need all that Patrick time?"</p><p>"Four hundred hours!" David echoes helpfully.</p><p>“I don’t know, son, I think we’re beginning to miss living on Patrick time,” his mom says with the kind of sad, warm smile that always seems to come attached to maternal strings. David empathizes completely with the unfairness of this kind of guilt-laying, but there is also a teeny tiny part of him that gets a bit gleeful that even Patrick can fall victim to such things, and that it isn’t just him. He enjoys having his behavior normalized, he can’t help it. He promises himself that he’ll comfort Patrick later, after a perfectly healthy amount of good clean fun.</p><p>“And, where, pray tell, would we start?” Yes, now David is excited. He is envisioning years of a precious chubby little face and wild auburn curls and for some reason, an inordinate amount of falling down. Although with Patrick's low center of gravity—</p><p></p><div class="message-2qnXI6 cozyMessage-3V1Y8y groupStart-23k01U wrapper-2a6GCs cozy-3raOZG zalgo-jN1Ica">
  <p></p>
  <div class="buttonContainer-DHceWr">
    <p>Clint Brewer claps his hands together, interrupting David's train of thought. “In the words of the great poets Rodgers and Hammerstein—" Clearly knowing exactly what is coming, Patrick groans loudly and with emphasis. “We can start at the very beginning. It’s a very good place to start.”</p>
    <p>“This is fantastic,” David says at the same time Patrick grumbles, “Oh my god.”</p>
    <p>Clint settles further back onto the sofa, the remote a weapon in his hand. “Did Patrick ever tell you that Marcy went into labor while she was playing the opening processional at Mass?”</p>
    <p>David elbows his husband, who he knows is going to require copious apologetic sex acts after having participated in this. Patrick gives him that lower-lip-jut-hang-dog-expression he’s perfected over the years. “Oh no, he absolutely has <em>not</em>.”</p>
    <p></p>
    <div class="buttons-cl5qTG container-3npvBV isHeader-2dII4U">
      <p></p>
      <div class="wrapper-2aW0bm">
        <p></p>
        <div class="button-1ZiXG9">
          <p>"When would it have come up?" </p>
          <p>Ignoring their son's protest of crossed arms and pouting lip, Clint and Marcy both lean forward in their seats as Clint finally presses <em>Play. </em>Patrick sinks so deeply into the couch cushions that David is concerned he’s going to have to go spelunking later to excavate him. Static crackles across the television screen and it is clear that the video is set in an eighties' hospital room, pushed in on Marcy Brewer's sweet young face. David realizes then that Patrick may not be the only person in this room who will need to recover from the contents of this video. </p>
        </div>
        <div class="button-1ZiXG9">
          <p>"I was playing the organ when my contractions started," Marcy tells David cheerfully. Patrick stares into the middle distance.</p>
        </div>
        <div class="button-1ZiXG9">
          <p>“And only our Patrick would decide he needed to join the world to the opening bars of ‘Here I Am Lord.’” David has no idea what that means, but the title certainly speaks to him, and he knows immediately that Patrick is being heckled for it. Which. That is David's job, really, and while he's definitely going to put his hand over his own eyes for the majority of this section of the reminiscing, he's experiencing a conflict of interest in wanting to protect Patrick too.</p>
          <p>He glances at Patrick, the very picture of rueful, then rubs the top of Patrick's thigh as he gives him a soft kiss. Patrick's lips are still against his as David whispers, “Only three hundred ninety-nine hours, fifty-nine minutes to go, baby."</p>
        </div>
      </div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Started From the Bottom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sweat trickles in less-than-fine rivulets everywhere on David’s person, doing god-knows-what to the fabric of his Neil Barrett. He is a sea creature, dripping as if he’s just emerged from an algae-laden lagoon. To top it all off, he’s carrying burdensome, heavy furniture that Alexis bought <em>retail</em>. And in a case this dire, there is but one thing David can do. Complain.</p>
<p>“The next time you offer to help my sister move, could you please ensure that she does not live in a fourth floor walk-up?” David grouses, swiping at his forehead with his inner elbow. Obviously this sweater is unsalvagable.</p>
<p>His husband, who is five steps above David holding the opposite end of an apparently lead-based coffee table and showing off his balance and coordination by doing everything backward like some sort of gymnast, has the nerve to laugh. “I’m sorry, did I offer? I feel like I remember saying I’d be happy to help you help your sister. I was thinking I’d drive the truck or even be more like moral support. I’ve seen the two of you pack. It’s like D-Day but with five hundred pairs of shoes and an over-abundance of fine leather goods.”</p>
<p>If David had an available hand to wave dismissively, he would, but. He settles for an aggrieved eyebrow raise and a slightly aggressive shoulder shimmy. “Listen, we don’t have a transcriptionist on hand so I’m going to go with my memory of the events if you don’t mind.”</p>
<p>Patrick grunts in response as he hoists his end a bit higher to miss the next step up. It isn’t as if they aren’t both exerting themselves. It’s just that when Patrick sweats, his forehead merely glistens as if woodland fairies have jubilantly spritzed him in a fine mist of morning dew and sparkling magic dust. Even in the dingy light of the too-tight stairwell, he looks like an ingenue, if ingenues wore Blue Jays caps and a one size too small white t-shirt, just to be ornery. Patrick even has the cuffs rolled up because <em>it’s hot David, </em>but David knows better.</p>
<p>Better is because Patrick, after two years of dating and almost a year of marriage, has discovered that he’s a fucking <em>dish</em>. Which David is thrilled about. When they aren’t trapped in a two inch wide stairwell in a heatwave holding Pottery Barn’s latest abomination and David isn’t doing his Creature from the Black Lagoon impersonation.</p>
<p>“David,” Patrick says as he takes another step backward toward the landing and does a graceful little turn to maneuver onto the next set of what appear to be endless stairs. “I promise that the next time you offer to help your sister move into her fourth floor walk up apartment in August, I will remind you not to wear a sweater.”</p>
<p>David sniffs and comes to a dead stop. He doesn’t drop the coffee table because he’s in no mood to become a widower at…thirty-f-something, but he needs to take a stand. Patrick’s left bicep and forearm bulge and mock him silently where he’s gripping the table. “I don’t think—” David is unable, however, to finish his thought because his too-hot-for-the-stairwell husband is hovering above him, lips tantalizingly close.</p>
<p>“I’ll make you another promise,” Patrick’s voice is low and a little scratchy and the tone of it scrapes its way down David’s nerve endings, straight to his cock. His bottom lip brushes David’s top one, a kind of slow murder, death by a thousand electrical impulses. It isn’t fair that Patrick can still make David weak-kneed over something as simple as a kiss after all this time. It’s sorcery. He finds himself on his tiptoes, magnetized and energized by Patrick’s lips on his, wishing he could explain to Patrick the power he possesses.</p>
<p>Patrick must know, though, as he licks into David’s mouth and makes a strangled noise in the back of his own throat, as if he is the one who is overcome. David can feel his grip on the coffee table slipping, can feel his grip on the fabric of reality slipping, thanks to his husband’s clever tongue. They’re panting and sweat is dripping into David’s eyes when they finally pull apart.</p>
<p>“You were saying something about a promise?” It’s hard to be casual when all he wants to do is pin Patrick to the dirty stair rail and kiss him until the landlord installs an elevator but he will do what he has to do.</p>
<p>Patrick’s eyes are a little dazed, which is nice. It’s nice to see the physical manifestation of both the love and lust David feels for Patrick, reflected back at him, even now. He also loves that Patrick is still towering over him, glistening and glimmering and beautiful. Patrick clears his throat, recovering. “I promise we are going to finish this later.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The More You Mope</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This is a deleted scene from the Trivia AU I wrote (The More You Know) that is from Patrick's POV so it didn't fit, but here it is anyway.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Son, this is A+ moping, but did you maybe want to do something else about your troubles?” His dad says from the doorway of his childhood, and now apparently adulthood, and maybe just <em>forever </em>bedroom. He also decides to ignore the blatant understatement that is <em> troubles</em>. </p><p>Patrick suddenly feels fifteen and very sullen, after having broken up with Rachel for the first of many times. “No. I’m good. Joni and Leonard are doing all the moping work for me.”</p><p>“Ah but Leonard and Joni are getting up there in years and boundless sadsackery is wasted on the young. Do you think maybe you could give them a break?”</p><p>He is definitely fifteen now and his dad is asking him, without actually asking him, to turn down his stereo. He can’t help that playing them on vinyl improves the sonic landscape of the songs. They are infinitely more wounding this way. He rolls over. “I’ll turn it down.” </p><p>Patrick doesn’t actually move any further or turn it down, which leads to his father stepping into his room and sitting down at Patrick’s old desk. He realizes then that his dad is holding an envelope and he wonders if his parents might have typed up an eviction letter. If they don’t forcibly kick him out he might never leave. He's going to get old here. He <em>might </em>be spiraling.</p><p>His dad reaches over to hand him the envelope. It isn't an eviction notice.</p><p>Inside is a photograph, printed at the drug store like that is even a thing possible to do anymore. </p><p>Obviously it is the picture that his parents took that last morning in the cafe, when life still seemed like it held possibility, before the end came. He has been careful not to go through the photos on his phone because it is still too hard to see the lightness in both of their faces. It’s too hard to see David and not be able to touch him or talk to him or think that he might not still care about him. This picture is even harder to look at because it’s so close to the end but neither of them seem to have any clue. David’s hand is on his shoulder and Patrick is leaning into him and he can feel David’s presence like he’s about to teleport into the room at the mere mention of his name. </p><p>Patrick doesn’t think he can breathe. He does though, drawing in air raggedly. </p><p>His dad’s eyes are concerned but they're also kind. “Those two looked like there wasn’t anything they couldn’t do together.”</p><p>“Hmm,” he mutters in a manner somewhere south of agreement, holding onto the photo and trying to keep from crying while his dad is still in the room. Even at thirty-two, like any kid, Patrick hates when his parents are right. Hates even more that he’s been thinking the same thing, in between the rending of garments and frequent lamentation. Hates that he knows the precise method of his possible re-entry, like David is the atmosphere and Patrick is powerless in hurtling toward him.</p><p>Getting up off the bed, Patrick reaches over and turns the stereo up, just enough, as his immature way out of the conversation, and his dad mercifully takes the hint and closes the bedroom door behind him.</p><p>He stares at his phone, places it face down on his chest, laces his numb fingers together. Breathes and allows the weight of the phone to even out the erratic beats of his heart. </p><p>Joni Mitchell sings about drinking of case of him and that sounds good, if it didn't mean leaving this bed, this room, this mood.</p><p>Pain is pain is pain, he tells himself, and maybe it varies by degrees, but everything hurts. If everything were to hurt more, he isn’t sure he could tell the difference.</p><p>Honestly, he doesn’t much care if the pain goes away. He wants David. </p><p>He picks up the phone, scrolls down to the fairly recent text chain he had with Stevie and types: Do you still need a sixth?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Sweater Weather</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Patrick has feelings about David's sweaters."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The closet that Patrick and David share ("share" being the loosest, most hypothetical definition of the word, if you are still sharing when a clear abundance exists on one side) is surprisingly one of Patrick’s favorite places in their home.</p><p>David says that Patrick likes it because it is extremely well-ordered, but so is almost everything else in their life right now. Everything is exactly where it should be.</p><p>It’s early and Patrick’s clothes are laid out on the bench at the end of their bed where David is still asleep, but Patrick finds himself standing in the closet anyway. The shelves are mostly knits, folded and cataloged, organized by season then designer, alphabetically. David’s designer t-shirts and long sleeved items hang closest to Patrick’s own clothing. He’s never seen so many pairs of jeans outside of a Hudson’s Bay (maybe the times he trailed behind his mother to the Gap Outlet, awash in a sea of denim and regret) and god knows that David would not deign to purchase any more than a pair of socks at either of those establishments. He probably shouldn’t even think about those stores within spitting distance of David’s Amiri and his Dries Van Noten and his Rick Owens. (He also shouldn’t think about spitting. Patrick unconsciously takes two steps backward and away from what David calls the “luxury knit” section of his wardrobe, just to be safe.) </p><p>Backing up forces Patrick closer to the stacks of David’s sweatpants that cost as much as his first car and his own pile of white undershirts, where they’re stored neatly on the shelf next to David’s; they are the one wardrobe staple of theirs that might actually be interchangeable. </p><p>He stands, arms akimbo, scanning the rack. Patrick’s section of hanging clothes is slight, almost negligible. It’s just his five standard, various-shades-of-blue button downs, a few pops of color thrown in from when David decided that Patrick was more of an autumn (<em>here, wear more green</em>; <em>oh no</em>, <em>not </em> that <em> green </em> ), and a handful of sweaters. His date blazer. His wedding suit, impeccably tailored. A few short-sleeved shirts for when it gets too warm or when David spiritedly declares <em>it’s an arm day, Patrick </em> or when <em> he </em> declares <em>it’s an arm day, David</em><em>. </em>There are definitely more arm days now. And usually, Patrick doesn’t need to spend much time contemplating his clothing. It is what it is; his clothes are functional and neatly kept and he doesn’t think about them, truly, at all.</p><p>Their closet smells like David—like cedar and a particular incense David still orders monthly from Japan, one last holdover from his former life. And when David wears his sweaters, the aroma is caught within the knit like a delicately perfumed cloud, and Patrick can’t help but bury his face in it after David is dressed. For something originating from a place he’s never lived or even visited, the scent is remarkably like home.</p><p>“Are you still admiring your handiwork?” David’s voice jars Patrick out of his thoughts, but his heartbeat slows when David’s hands soothe at his shoulders. “My clothes niche hero.”</p><p>“You wanted a place for your sweaters; I gave you a place for your sweaters,” Patrick says offhandedly, but he’s fairly certain that he is just as grateful for the place to put his own. He may not inhabit the same physical presence, but he knows exactly how he fits here. He knows it innately and completely. </p><p>He also knows he’d give David anything he asked for, and probably not even within reason anymore. David knows, too, that’s why he’s pressing ever closer, crowding his hips into Patrick’s and bracketing him against a shelf of David’s shoes. </p><p>“You built me a closet.” David’s voice is low and purring. </p><p>“It was from a kit, mostly,” Patrick demurs, allowing his hands to wander across the broad planes of David’s back, allowing himself to breathe. The wool of David’s sweater is deceptively smooth against Patrick’s bare chest, when to the eye, it seems like it could scratch. Patrick’s left hand wanders, seeking out a pattern as he further tests the nap of the fabric. The sweater is like David; sharp to the eye but soft to the touch. “Your knits were vulnerable, you’d said.” </p><p>“And you couldn't bear to leave them just to flail amongst the elements.” David waves his hand. "Or on hangers."</p><p>"Wouldn't dream of it." Patrick brushes his lips across David's collarbone, seeking purchase against the shelves. David's mouth is hot and perfect and languorous kisses turn into more, David's sleep-sweater left to fend for itself on the hardwood floor.</p><p>Even then, Patrick thinks, sliding between David's legs, everything is still in its place. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Kisses shared under an umbrella and “staring at each other’s lips for a moment before moving closer, as if drawn together by some unseen force.”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>“I need you to understand that this could very well mean the end of our marriage,</span>
  <span>” David says, because he wants to be very clear about this. The stakes are far too high to risk any misunderstanding.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I need you to understand that our marriage just started twenty minutes ago so I’m not ready for it to be over quite yet,” Patrick states, simply but firmly, on the steps of City Hall. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rain has kicked up again, heavier now, and they have somehow been left with only the barest hint of an umbrella, something Stevie fished out of the trunk of her car. It may have once been emblazoned with the Hospies logo, or maybe a line of fishing gear, or a brand of motel linens. Whatever it was, it isn’t now, and it is nary enough protection from the rapidly encroaching elements.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Patrick, I love you, but you know what happens to my hair in humid conditions.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Patrick doesn’t actually know, because David has protected him from that truth for the last two years, and it seems patently unfair that only moments after Patrick pledged the rest of his life to David that they’re going to be tested. Granted, Patrick promised to climb a thousand mountains and time not erasing his strong feelings, but that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>time</span>
  </em>
  <span> he was worried about, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>rain.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Rain has erased entire ecosystems; David’s hair stands no chance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“David, I promise you, I will love you in wet hair and in dry, okay? There’s pizza waiting.” Patrick’s growling stomach punctuates his sentence. “We just have to walk twenty feet and then we’re in the car.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Patrick starts to descend to the next step and David halts him by grabbing the arm holding the umbrella. When Patrick glances back at him, quizzical, David takes a heaving breath and channels every bit of his mother he has ever desired to summon. “We can’t. It can’t end this way, Patrick, it’s too soon.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One light eyebrow twitches in typical Patrick fashion and then stills. His husband’s face is serious, stoic as he addresses David from beneath a hot pink umbrella. Oh fuck, maybe Stevie got this from the gynecologist after she switched brands of birth control. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I hope you know that there is nothing on this earth that I would not try to give you. I’d move heaven and earth for you, I really, really would.” Patrick kisses David then, one hand on the umbrella, one hand cupping David’s jaw. He’s good, he’s so good, and David is married to him now, this good man. His heart leaps in his chest at the thought of </span>
  <em>
    <span>forever</span>
  </em>
  <span>. No, Patrick is right; twenty minutes is hardly enough. “I love you, David, so much.” He leans in again, trading a gentle kiss for a firmer one, his fingers pressing into the back of David’s neck. David melts into the touch, into the space left between their bodies, into the promise of always being loved and loving in return. “And I also love you so much that I promise not to make a single comment on whatever tragedy befalls us should a single drop of rain touch your beautiful head.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>David withdraws from the kiss for a moment, studies Patrick’s short-cropped hair that could survive literally any onslaught, then wonders if Patrick doesn’t have his finger well on the pulse of that particular conundrum. “Not only will you not comment, but you also promise that your love for me won’t waver?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let’s not get crazy, David,” Patrick repeats for the second time that day, dodging David’s fluttering hand as it waves toward his face. “I promise. No wavering.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not even a small bit of teetering?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My love for you shall neither teeter nor totter. So can we please get in the car? I think the rain is getting into the back of my jacket.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“One more second. Just in case.” David takes a deep breath, savoring, and then slips his hand around Patrick’s on the handle of the umbrella. “You know, until I moved here, someone else always handled my umbrella, and not even as a euphemism. We had people for that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Patrick looks at David, at their ringed hands encircling the cheap plastic, and then back. “You still have people for that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He takes in Patrick for a moment, scanning the warm brown eyes that used to belong to “some guy at Ray’s,” who over time came to be the love of his life, his forever umbrella handler. </span>
  <span>Patrick is staring at David’s mouth, and maybe he’s thinking the same thing; thinking about a mouth that couldn’t fill out an incorporation form but can now complete quarterly taxes, his forever business partner. It’s funny how they can always manage to see each other, even in the rain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Drawn together as if by some unseen force, David and Patrick release the umbrella and allow it to clatter to the Town Hall steps, reaching for each other instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>David’s hair does not survive; the marriage does.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>These ficlets are unbeta-ed due to impulse posting.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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